


Favorite Game

by darthneko



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: BDSM, Crossdressing, M/M, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-11-15
Updated: 2003-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-07 23:52:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthneko/pseuds/darthneko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Private games on hidden battlefields.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tarnished Angel

Lace. White virgin lace and crimson slut red. Sweet fucking Hyne, it ought to be a crime to dress him in anything else.

The blood is still fresh, trailing in perfect streaks down across his trembling stomach. Frightened, pet? Don't be. You want this, you know you do. Such a fuss at first, all riled up and arguing; you'll let me fuck you raw but this? No, never, too much dignity lost, too far out there, they all call you pretty and this just touched a nerve. It was nothing you wanted any part of.

Liar.

Sheer white silk, like cool ice to the touch; I rolled them up your bare legs and clipped the garter in place to keep them there. Your cheeks were flushed red and you wouldn't meet my eyes, but your body doesn't lie like your mouth does. You were hard already and you shivered when I slid the shoes over your feet and strapped the buckles around your ankles, tight enough to make you wince.

But lies off your tongue are sweet to hear - go on, say it again. Tell me you didn't moan when I made you stand up. Tell me your breath didn't catch the first time you felt it, the stretch across your bound instep, the burn in your calves as the heels forced you to your toes and the smooth slide of silk between your bare thighs. Sweet Hyne, but the move of your hips when you walked across the room would make a man weep. You look like a fucking wet dream.

Open your eyes, pet. _Look_. That image staring back at us out of the mirror is _perfect_, absolutely fucking _perfect_. The little noises you made as I let the tip of the knife play across your chest were all the hotter for it, gasped and mewling, the image and sound of tarnished innocence. Virgin blood, slicking white pale skin and sliding down to stain dark against the fabric at your waist.

It slides up so easily, doesn't it? Nothing but a scrap of pleated fabric held on with little gold buckles, and it almost matches the gray of your eyes if they weren't darkened to hazy black right now. Pushed up in the back, with the tight curve of your bare ass pressed hot to my hips, but in front where the mirror can see, you might almost be decent... almost, but Hyne, the flash of garter and skin beneath the skirt hem is mesmerizing. Angel and slut, all at once, and that's what you are, aren't you? Perfect little boy by day, but the slut inside wants out. You want to be pushed, you want a little force, you want the edge. That's why you're here. That's why _I'm_ here.

My hand on your thigh makes you flinch and shiver. Open your eyes. Imagine it. I could let the knife play over your thighs, sharp steel just below that fragile pules that beats so fast in the curve of your hip. The blood would well up thick and hot, but drop the skirt hem down and no one would ever see. Not until it seeped down, crimson bright, dripping wet between your thighs to stain scarlet over white silk stockings... virgin blood, and your knees pressed tight, but it's too late for that, far too late.

Or I could just reach beneath that hem and take you in hand. Hard and fast, just the way you like it. Would you like that? No, keep your fucking eyes open. _Look_. Do you know what you look like when you come? Ever wondered? Stripped naked and raw, open mouthed and gasping with those little cries you try to swallow... They think you're made of ice. Wouldn't they like to see you like this? Perfect little girl, but your mouth lies, the clothes lie - only your body tells the truth, taut and writhing, hot and ready, back arched and hips trembling as you let my hand fuck you.

Slut. Whore. Pretty pretty little girl.

You whimper when I stop. God that's a sweet sound. And the sounds you make when my fingers brush over those thin cuts is damn near intoxicating. Sing for me, baby. Cry for me. Do you want it? Do you really want it?

Beg for it. Whore's mouth in a little angel's body, god yes. Beg for it, beg to be fucked, beg for me to push that little girl skirt up and bend you over, split your ass wide open on my cock. Fuck _yes_. Is that what you want? Is it?

Slick with your own sweat; sliding into you is like pushing into hot velvet, tight and sweet and the noises you make when I fuck you are pure heaven. Open your eyes, slut. _Open_ them. There, in the mirror - that's _you_, painted in sweat and blood and sex, and your knees aren't closed now, are they? Wide open and begging, wanting, and a pull on that oh-so-modest fabric slides the skirt hem up and over your hard cock. Dark and aching, slick and wet with your own fluids; you'd beg me to touch but you know better, you know I won't - not when I can break you like this, with nothing but my cock driving hard into you. Dress you like a girl, fuck you like one, and you'll come like one, won't you, flushed and crying, breath short as you pant for it like a bitch in heat.

I want to see my cum stain those little girl stockings, I want to see it drip down the curve of your thighs when I pull out, your ass red and open beneath that pleated skirt.

That lion head you wear dangles down, streaked with blood from the cuts around your upthrust nipples. Heavy chain, heavier pendant - I let you keep it on because I love how it looks, heavy and cold and cruel around your throat where the links bite into flesh. Sweet sweet pet. Pretty girl. So easy to catch a cold length of chain in my fingers, twist and pull; you gasp as the links sink into your skin, blood flushed around your throat, caught tight and deadly. Another twist and you'll mewl for real, choked and trying to gasp, the dark of your eyes white rimmed and the sweat of your body suddenly cold with adrenaline. You want edge? I'll give it to you. I'll make you walk it. Feel the tightness in your lungs? Feel the cold flush through your stomach? Like the knife but even better, colder, and it makes your hips move harder against me, your whole body desperate, needing, animal fucking, so close and not quite...

Watch when you come, baby. Watch it. Keep your eyes open and watch as the flush moves through your skin, the tremble shivering through your body just before you stiffen, crying. Your lips are streaked in crimson blood, the lipstick of a real whore, and you can't look away, can you? Neither can I. Perfect. God damned fucking _gorgeous_ and it's my hands on you, my marks on that ivory skin, my cock sunk in you and my cum that you're feeling wash hot deep inside you.

_Mine_.

Whose little girl are you, Squall? Say it. Bitch. Slut. Whore. Say it, gasp my name. And even if you don't... let the lies fall off your lips. I like to hear them. But your body will tell me the real truth.

Angel.


	2. Transformations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garden classes weren't just about weapons...

You took it all without comment - all of the instruction, all of the lessons, every detail. Just another class, another thing to learn, and we all laughed about it outside the classroom; jokes and camp acting in the cafeteria and the halls - Dincht flouncing around like a twenty gil whore or Nida and the limp wristed mincing lisp, and who knew he had the makings of a comedian in him? - until we were in stitches and laughter washed away embarrassment.

Except you. You didn't laugh. You knew all along what the rest of us had to come to grips with - it's just a class. Just another lesson. One we may have to use on the field some day and you sat and learned it with the same intensity you would have turned to learning the inner workings of an explosive.

A thousand faces, hundreds of looks, dozens of different personas. They taught us a scattering of them, the ones they thought we could best pull off under pressure, the ones that would let us blend in the most or be the most unsuspected. We practiced until we could do it in our sleep... and then they gave us the hardest of our new repertoire for the final exam.

Thank fucking Hyne I'm as tall as I am. Too tall, too stocky, too square around the jaw. It saved me from _your_ trial.

Standing in front of the tiny sink, I watch you put it on - draw the mask down over your face, in cream and powder and careful pigment. Your finger, so steady on the trigger of a gunblade, can't be any less steady with pencil and ink.

Amazing the difference a touch of color can make against your pale skin. Glossy wine shades give a pout to your lips, full and eyecatching. The dark chocolate lines of liquid kohl make your eyes larger, a different shape, elegant and startling... and just as cold, gray ice beneath thick sculpted eyelashes, but if you lower them and let the lush shine of your lips do the talking no one will ever see the killer in your eyes.

They're called the "delicate" sex, but there's nothing delicate about you. A hint of frosted blush against your cheeks, following the curve of the bone, does nothing to soften them - it only accents, sharp as a razor blade, and you are what they name you: ice queen. Cold and cool and pristine white.

But some men like that. Some men would fall all over themselves for those curved, glossy lips and the lacy trace of long lashes over milk pale cheeks. Some men - a lot of them - are going to be so busy watching those lips move when you talk and imagining that slick, painted pout wrapped around the head of their cock, that they won't hear a fucking word you say.

You comb your hair back with your fingers, more of it out of your eyes than any of us are used to seeing, secured with a glittering set of pins that catch the light in tiny crystals when you slide them into place. The silver stud in your ear comes out easy, slipped free as you tilt your head to the side, and longer strands of crystals sparkle as you snap the earrings shut. They brush your throat when you shake your head, testing, the flash of them bright beneath the flourescent lights.

From the neck down I am watching your back move with every gesture, solid muscle sliding across bone and sinew, the flex of shadows in the hollows of your spine and shoulders as you reach for one last pencil. But from the neck up, in the bright lit reflection of the mirror, I am watching a woman that men would kill for come to life in the planes and forms of your face.

You're ignoring me, your eyes in the mirror glancing back and sliding across me as though I'm not there. That's fine. Ignore me all you like... just let me watch.

Thin, like gossamer spider webs; you gather them up with a practiced touch, no snags, no rips, and I watch the flex of muscles in your calf and thigh as you roll them up across a long expanse of leg to nestle at last in lace edged lines along your inner thigh. Sheer silk transforms raw flesh into sculpted perfection - does that feel good, baby? Gripping your thigh right there, like a would-be lover, and you not quite sure if you want to open your legs or clamp your knees shut.

Shut, of course. You're the perfect lady, from the tip of your stockinged toes to the silk soft brush of your hair at the nape of your neck. Stocking and garter, belt and thong... one piece at a time, transformed, until it seems like the only thing I recognize is the play of muscles in your back and arms and the familiar, smooth angles of your torso.

But that's next, isn't it?

You turn your back more solidly to me when you pick it up, for all the world like the woman you would be. Thin black satin straps over your shoulders and your back blocking my view of the mirror; you twist your arms around, shoulder blades sliding sharp beneath your skin, gloss tipped fingers reaching, but this is the part you always have trouble with and I wait as you fumble with it. In my mind's eye I can see those wine stained lips pressing thin as you struggle to line up the tiny hook and eye closures. Until...

"Seifer?" Your voice is low and flat, toneless - it could be the prelude for anything, from telling me off to begging a favor. "Can you...?"

"Of course," I answer. Of course. Come here, darling, let me get that for you. You stand rigid as I take the troublesome thing from you, your hands dropping to your side, face turned away. I can watch the gleam of silver and crystal caress your neck as I slide the fastenings home.

I can look past you into the mirror, to your turned away eyes and my own reflection over your shoulder as the last piece slides into place.

Black lace and satin, underwired and carefully shaped; we've done the limited resource test already, with cursory swipes of pigment on your lips and plain white cups filled out with tissue. Enough to pass at a glance or from a distance, a quick, last ditch sort of thing. But this... this is meant to be much more. This is meant to open the doors of everywhere you go, this is meant to stand up to everything from government receptions to every Cadet in Garden in a class below ours.

This... is _perfect_.

You're all muscle across your chest and arms, sleek and rippling, but looking in the mirror I can hardly see it. One simple little piece of lingerie changes so much. Flawless realism, and even knowing that it's only satin, only lace, only gel filled cups of fabric... even still, the temptation is there to reach around, cup my fingers over rounded swells and feel the weight of them in my palms.

Because they're _yours_. Because, looking into that mirror, it would be my arms wrapped around a woman in nothing but scandalous scraps of black lace and silk, her breasts in my hands, and that woman would be _you_.

You look like a centerfold.

You shrug me away when the last hook and eye meet, five fastenings done up in a neat line along your spine. I take a step back - the better to watch the play of the garters over your ass when you lean down to get your shoes. Shiny and black, stylish but flat - you're tall enough as it is, the instructors advised against heels. Pity. The flex of your muscles under the sheer silk is mesmerizing; with heels to force you up onto those pretty stocking covered toes your calves would be a fucking work of art.

The rest is easy for you, motions you could do in your sleep - the tiny palm revolver that straps nearly flat against your thigh and the stiletto blades that fit against your inner wrist, where a quick jerk will slide them into your waiting hands. They said it was a shame your hair wasn't longer - you could have put another few needle thin blades there instead of just enough polarized pins to open every lock we covered in mid-grade espionage last summer.

The final gem in the creation you've wrought is hanging up. I slide it off and bring it to you without question, before you have to ask; you lift your arms and let me slide it down over you, covering up those tantalizing bits of lace and the long stretches of pale skin. Long sleeves to hide the knife holsters and the muscles of a gunblade user and a skirt that falls almost a handspan above your knees, leaving an eyecatching swath of leg exposed. Unadorned but perfectly tailored, a deep evergreen color to complement your hair, shimmering silk that glistens with every gesture and every breath. The zipper closes along your spine with a hushed, reverent zshhhhhh as I slide it up, two tiny buttons slipping into place at the back of your throat.

You turn to face me, then, hands smoothing the skirt down over your hips, and I think I forget to breath.

You wait. When I don't say anything quickly enough you swallow and the motion of your throat beneath the silk band that cups it draws the eyes... and from there down to the porcelain pale expanse of your collarbones, framed in green silk that plunges down between the rounded swell of breasts that look as though they were made to be touched, thrusting up beneath the glimmer of soft fabric with just a hint of black lace bra peeking around the edge. Scandalous.

The wet, pink tip of your tongue flicks out, just touching the deep gloss on your lips. "Well?" you ask, and your voice is the crowning glory; low and husky, liquid sex in vocal form. You found early on that you couldn't fake a convincing falsetto but it didn't matter; your look and that fresh fucked bedroom voice were a match made in heaven for the wet dreams of angels.

"You'll pass," I tell you. Your eyes flicker to me, gray and reflected green, hard as ice; in the next moment you drop them, sliding effortlessly into character, and only the hint of those arctic shards is left beneath the lowered veil of exotic lashes.

"Just remember to slouch," you tell me in your normal tone, one last sharp jab before you gather up your purse and it's time to go - class and the last exam are waiting. Your shoes make sharp, precise sounds on the tiles, crisp and exact, and from where I stand the smooth, practiced motion of your hips as you walk out the door is damn near sinful.

You'll pass, Squall. You'll pass and you'll learn - that hard, cold edge of yours makes you standoffish at the best of times. But you're not Squall right now. You're someone else. And that same edge, transmuted in lingerie and skirt, is an ice bitch silk dominatrix dream that men will throw themselves in front of just in the hopes of kissing one stocking clad ankle.

From now until sundown you'll be walking in those shoes... and every man you meet is going to be thinking of nothing but pushing you down across the nearest flat surface, spreading those silk sheathed legs and fucking you raw. Oh yes... you'll pass. You're fucking _perfect_.

I shove my hands deep in the pockets of my pants, remembering to adjust every movement from knees to spine _("you're too tall, it's too noticeable - curve your shoulders, tuck your chin, the goal is to blend in...")_ and follow after you. And if my eyes are still on the curves of your ass... well... can anyone blame me?


	3. Sweet Desolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The drought of remembrance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note:** _Set during the Dollet prison sequence._

You're so fucking beautiful like this. All pale white skin and trembling muscle, spread out beneath me like a feast for the taking. Do you have any fucking idea how gorgeous you are?

It's been too long. I've missed this. Have you missed me, baby? Shh, don't talk. Just move for me, let your body talk for you. The beads of sweat across your skin tell stories and the shiver I can feel, shuddering against my thighs... that could write whole volumes. You're aching for it, pet, straining, but this is my game, my dance. I want this to last. I want this to _last_.

I'm starving, angel, and the feel of you under me is a drought in the goddamn fucking desert.

You taste of sweat and blood and a sour, sharp tang... oh baby, your body could write fucking novels and I know how to read every word. I can read it in the taste of you, in the throb of your pulse and the gasp of your breath. Your eyes are closed, shut away from me, but I can press my thumbs to the velvet soft skin beneath your lashes and you'll open them; black gray wells, bottomless and dilated. Can you see me, baby? Can you _see_?

The hot rush of breath over your lips is tainted in the taste of metal and leather and the salty taste of blood. I can press my mouth there, inhale your breath and slip my own back into your lungs. I can slide my tongue beneath your lip and feel your pulse, where it runs fast and hot in tiny veins beneath fragile, saliva slick membranes. I can trace the trails of metallic taste that wind in fresh wet rivulets across your lip and cheek where the hard edge of leather has bitten into your skin.

Can you taste it, pet?

There's a map laid out across your body that I can read with my fingertips; welts and weals and the fragile softness of blisters, raw skin, wet skin, sweat and blood woven like crimson lace. I can chart the tiny dimples that string silent trails of heat flushed bruises along the curve of your inner arm; every place they've slipped their needles, fucked you with a surgeon's prick, strapped down and spread open for those sharp steel cocks to thrust into your veins and spew their cold, pharmaceutical come into the heat of your blood. Slut.

Move for me, baby. Sing. Like a symphony choked down behind the bit that lays hard and heavy across your tongue... suck the chrome, baby with a whore's greedy red slicked mouth. Every breath, every gasp, every tiny moan is music to my ears, drawn forth at the pluck of my fingertips over the strings of your nerves. Move for me, beautiful. Let me feel it in your hips, in the arch of your back and the shudder of muscle... tell me how much you want this.

Fucking gorgeous.

I can drag my hands across your body and feel you shiver. I can lick you from my fingertips, blood, sweat and heat. Who's are you, baby? Do you remember?

How good does this feel?

Cool metal nodes pressed to your skin, touch of a switch... you arch under me, into me, muscles rippling, throat stretched back in one long curve of fragile skin that begs to be touched, devoured. I can feel it with you where flesh touches flesh, buried deep in your heat and the tight, hungry grasp of your body. Feel it, whore? Feel how it stings? Touch of spice, of electric charge, tiny zinging jolts that set your pulse racing and your breath caught in gasps. See? It doesn't have to hurt.

Give me your breath, baby. Give me your taste. Give me the shiver of your body, the feel of you under me, around me... give me this moment, strung out infinitely in taste and feel and simple heat.

She'll take it later. Take it away, like she's taken all the rest. Scrape it from my head, leave me raw and bleeding, mind fucked harder and deeper than any junction with her grasping fist thrust deep in my memories and her whisper threaded like electric currents through my thoughts... but now, right now, it's just us. Just you. Just _me_. Just my cock and your ass and the feel of me in you, the press of you under me, the sweet sweet taste of you and the slick hot feel of you and the moments... all of the moments... one... after... the... other...

Come for me, baby. Let me feel that last shudder, let me hear all the sounds you can't bite back past the bit and the metal and the musky leather taste that stains your skin. Give me that one last memory because there's only this moment, only right now... and nothing after.

Lie to me, Squall. Beg me. Twist beneath me, truth and falsehoods draped across your skin like sweet drops of liquid life. Give me what you know I want, our old dance, the familiar game.

Sing for me, baby. Dance for me.

Come for me.

Remember for me, Squall. No one else will.


End file.
